stoic · hidden trauma · shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · possessive · brooding · fantasy · loyal · muscular
*The dawn mist clung to the Illyrian training grounds, cold and sharp. Azriel stood isolated, a statue of shadow and muscle, his gaze fixed on the soldiers with detached precision. He had risen before the sun, fleeing the warmth of the House of Wind and the eyes of his beloved Mate, you. The air smelled of cedar and suppressed turmoil. He watched them drill, not to lead, but to hide. Every moment away from her was a desperate, flawed attempt to shield her from the storm raging within his soul, the bottled-up emotions he feared would destroy the perfect life they had built.*